The Scrapbook
by katbybee
Summary: This will be an ongoing series of short stories, drabbles and musings contained within Napoleon and Illya's scrapbook. They will be in no particular order and will cover various periods and aspects of Napoleon and Illya's lives, partnership, and friendship. Please R/R, Thanks! Usual stuff applies. I feel I have no more stories to tell in this fandom, so I am closing this story.
1. Looking Back

Illya Kuryakin held a battered old scrapbook in his hands. It was full of old photographs and letters, and carefully written entries, some from many years ago. It was a joint project he and Napoleon had begun years ago, and had added to over the long years of their friendship. His eyes misted over as he read over some of the entries. Some of them contained the names of people he had worked with who had passed on many years before…most of those had not died of old age. How he missed them! The one that still hurt the most was their fair-haired Brit, Mark Slate, who had died saving their lives, a very long time ago…

He and Napoleon had managed to live to be old men. How they had done so in their line of work, he had no idea. They had both defied the odds many times, and finally retired from the spy business years ago. They had made good lives for themselves. Napoleon had gone on to take over Mr. Waverly's position as New York Section Head, and had done very well at it for a number of years. He had retired a few years ago, finally content to hand over the reins to a younger generation.

Mr. Waverly had passed on suddenly shortly before Napoleon's retirement would have become effective, and Illya was content at that point to move entirely to become the Head of Research and Development for New York. In this way, they were still together, and although it was not quite the same; it was much better than forced retirement. Also, much as Mr. Waverly had done; on occasion, Napoleon would exercise "Executive Privilege" and extricate Illya from the research lab and they would head up a mission, so that their enforcement skills would not get completely rusty. Usually they would team up with April Dancer and Mark Slate on these occasions. It was on one such mission that things had gone horribly, unpredictably wrong, and Mark had sacrificed his life for all three of them.

Napoleon and Illya never went into the field again, although April implored them not to give up field work entirely. She knew Mark would not want them feeling guilty, as they would have done exactly as he had done for any one of them. They both smiled sadly at her, but knew they were finished as field agents. They had their areas of responsibility, and they would learn to be content with what time they had left. And they were extremely grateful they still had each other.

Time did, indeed, march on, and eventually, they retired completely. They had lived in adjoining flats for so many years; they saw no reason to change things at this point. Napoleon had never married after his beloved Clara had forced him to choose between his career and her, and Illya had long ago decided never to force that choice on a woman; so the two bachelors simply continue the routine they had established as partners when they first met so many years before. Only now, they didn't have to nurse one another back to health quite so often. Of course, Illya was still prone to pneumonia, which tended to be more serious now that he was older, and Napoleon complained about a bit of arthritis when he wanted a lady friend's sympathy, but all in all, they both felt it was much more than they had ever hoped for, and much more than they deserved. Life…was good.

Illya smiled at his musings, and closed the journal as the familiar coded knock sounded on his door. He chuckled. You could take the spy out of the business…

~The End~

A/N: This chapter is intended to introduce the series of short stories, drabbles and musings contained within The Scrapbook. They will be in no particular order and will cover various aspects of Napoleon and Illya's lives, partnership, and friendship.

This chapter is dedicated to Noel Harrison, our Mark Slate; 29 Jan 1934—19 Oct 2013 RIP


	2. Say it with Roses

Say It With Roses

Napoleon Solo had finally done it. Angelique had trapped him. She was good; he had to give her that. After all these years of sleeping with his enemy, he had never seen it coming. Illya would never let him live this down. He had insisted the Russian not follow him. Napoleon trusted her. Illya had listened for once.

The roses were delivered to her. Angelique was flattered. She inspected them for explosives. There were none; she relaxed. Her eyes widened when Illya dropped from the ceiling vent and freed his partner. After they left, Illya smiled, "The greenery; poison ivy."


	3. Old Enemies, Old Friends

Old Enemies, Old Friends

 _Somewhere in France_

Blood came with the territory. But that didn't mean he had to like it. Especially when it was dripping slowly from several places it was never meant to drip from, and he had no means of stopping it, chained to the wall as he currently was. And most especially when the blood dripping was not his own, but his partner's.

Illya had not opened his eyes for a long time now, and Napoleon was very much afraid he might never open them again. _Of course, he could simply be asleep,_ Napoleon thought sardonically. He loved to tease his partner that he could sleep virtually anywhere in any position. But sleeping upside down, chained to a wall would be asking too much even of Illya Kuryakin.

This was another time when Illya's stubborn sarcasm had gotten him into more trouble than he'd bargained for. The specific information this particularly ambitious THRUSH underling wanted was solely located in Illya's brilliant mind, and he was not about to turn it over to anyone. In the process of attempting to extract the information from him, while they made a thoroughly beaten and restrained Napoleon watch; Illya had shown his tormentors his version of what he thought of THRUSHbirds by giving them his own version of a bird. Illya had not dealt with Napoleon and New York cabdrivers for four years for nothing, after all!

While the gesture had made Napoleon chuckle, he knew it wasn't very bright, and he wasn't surprised at the violence that occurred as a result. What did surprise him, but really shouldn't have; was the grim look of victory on his partner's face just before Illya blacked out. That was when he realized his partner really _was_ a smart Russian. _He had known he was reaching his breaking point, and had found a way to end the session._ Damn him!

It may have been an hour later when Napoleon heard an unexpected explosion, gunshots, and a flurry of activity within the building. A cultured, accented voice at the barred window startled Napoleon. "Well, my old friend, I see you are doing quite well without me… Shall I simply leave you here?"

Napoleon was stunned. He had not heard that voice in years. He strained to look as the bars were removed and a devilishly handsome, grinning face peered in at him.

"Satine! Where the hell did you come from?!"

"Ah, my friend, a gentleman should never ask such a question, especially from his rescuer."

Apparently, Satine had made his way from the roof, as he lithely lowered himself through the narrow opening. Satine looked as calm and urbane as ever. He quickly released Napoleon and turned his attention to Illya.

"Tsk, tsk. Apparently, your friend made someone very angry." Satine's hands were gentle as they lowered the blond carefully to the stone tile. He continued to minister to Illya's wounds as he handed Napoleon a flask. "Here my friend. Some brandy will help. Go easy. It is the finest."

Napoleon smiled as he drank gratefully. "But of course."

Satine looked into Napoleon's eyes then as Napoleon returned the flask. "Your compatriots will be here soon. I sent them a message—not under my own name, of course. You will be safe. There are no guards now to…disturb you. You understand I must leave you now." Napoleon nodded.

"Thank you, Satine. I don't know how you managed this, or how you even knew where we were."

"And _that_ , my friend is why _I_ am Satine." He chuckled. "I hope all goes well for your young friend here. I hear many good things about him; especially his fondness for, how shall we say, subtlety?" He made an exploding motion with his hands, and both men laughed.

Satine left through the window as quickly as he had come, and Napoleon sat with Illya's head cradled in his lap, thinking back on that long ago mission when he and Satine had first met, when they had worked together under an uneasy truce.* As far as he knew, he was still the only UNCLE agent and one of very few people who knew what Satine actually looked like. Satine was not a THRUSH agent. He worked strictly for his own interests, and only for those who interested him. He was definitely one of the most intriguing men Napoleon knew. He also knew that their paths would cross again someday. He only hoped it would be when Illya was at his side. He knew the two men would find each other worthy adversaries and even worthier friends.

~The End~

A/N: * Satine is a character wonderfully played by Ricardo Montalban in "The Dove Affair" in Season One. Illya does not appear in this episode at all. I have only seen Seasons 1 & 2 so I do not know if Satine makes anymore appearances or not.


	4. Pennies from Illya

Pennies from Illya

There were perks to with having a dual role in UNCLE. Along with being one of their two Senior Section II agents, Illya Kuryakin was one of its top Research and Development Scientists. There were also drawbacks to this position. One of those drawbacks was boredom when he was stuck babysitting a particularly tedious experiment in a particularly hostile environment. And Labrador, Greenland, where he now found himself, was about as hostile an environment as one could find.

A bored, slightly aggravated Illya Kuryakin was never a good thing. His devious nature tended to play itself out in the form of pranks on other staff members caught in the same position, but in such a way that no one was ever able to figure out who the prankster actually was. If his partner had been present, Napoleon Solo could have ratted him out in a heartbeat; but as luck would have it, he was a half a world away, on vacation in Tahiti…which accounted for Illya's irritation.

Illya's latest cure for his boredom had a double purpose. It would definitely amuse him when his victim fell for it, but it would also give him a chance to test a new glue removal formula he had been waiting to try for several weeks.

In the dead of the night, Illya had patiently glued a very large number of pennies in bewildering trails all throughout the compound. They followed maze-like patterns, and many of the patterns ended at completely dead ends, such as blank walls, or secured and alarmed doors. If the victim did manage to follow the one trail that actually lead to the true end of the trail of pennies, he would find waiting for him an amused Illya Kuryakin, and a drink on the house at the base canteen.

Illya then spent the rest of his day happily removing the pennies with his special formula, having satisfactorily tested both his formula and the patience of one of the newest UNCLE recruits. For you see, the base in Labrador was also where the newest recruits were sent for a two-week deprivation "weeding out" session before being sent to Survival School in the jungle.

As he worked, Illya thought about the young man he had met in the canteen. It really hadn't taken him long to weave his way around the penny trail. Illya was impressed, but was careful to hide the fact, as he didn't want the other man to become too overconfident. Illya thought Napoleon would like the young man. In some ways, they were very much alike. Yes, Illya would be keeping his eye on young Mr. Slate.

~The End~


	5. When You Don't Fear the Reaper

When You Don't Fear the Reaper

"Napoleon come quick—Illya's in trouble! BIG trouble! He's outside. I only hope we're not too late!" These panicked words from the normally fairly calm George Dennell had Napoleon Solo's heart pounding by the time he caught up to the other agent, who was now racing through the grey hallways of headquarters. They made the trek to the sidewalk front entrance of Del Floria's in record time; where a crowd of agents and civilians had gathered, and were all staring upward, looks of silent horror on their collective faces. Not good. Not good at all.

Napoleon craned his neck upward, and nearly passed out. His partner was—walking along the edge of the building, as if it were a garden fence, swinging one foot out, then the other in front of him, using his arms for balance, looking for all the world like Tom Sawyer. Only this fence was many stories above a busy New York City street. And as Napoleon joined the crowd, he could clearly hear Illya singing to himself, in his native Ukrainian dialect. He apparently had not a care in the world.

Napoleon was mentally running through options as he whispered with Mr. Waverly and George. "Does anybody know how this happened?"

Waverly shook his head grimly, as George replied, "Not so far. He had just come back from lunch, and headed upstairs. I spoke to him. He seemed fine to me. I got off at our floor. He stayed on the elevator, which was sort of odd, I guess, but I figured he was going to do some research or something. Next thing I knew, Heather and one of the other girls came in and got us. He was up there just like you see him."

Waverly added "In his official capacity, he has access to all sections, codes, and alarms. That's how he must have gotten out there without our seeing him."

Napoleon didn't add that "unofficially" his friend had also built in a "backdoor" code to every alarm and computer in the place, in case of an enemy attack on them. He didn't think that under the present circumstances that would help anyone's nerves. He just needed to get to Illya and get him off the damn roof and figure out what had happened to him.

He asked them to watch Illya and try to clear out the civilians or at least keep them quiet as he headed up to try to talk to his partner. He knew once the shock and novelty wore off the citizens, it wouldn't be long before the heckling would start. It was just a fact of life with potential jumpers in the city. Not that that was the case here, but still…

Napoleon groaned as he quietly opened the door onto the roof. Apparently whatever was preying on Illya's psyche had morphed. He had now clambered up onto the casing for the lasers, and was balancing on one leg. He looked for all the world like a man who was about to—launch himself off into—he was actually going to attempt flight!

His normally cold blue eyes were steely, yet glazed over. He was totally determined to pitch himself over the side of the building in graceful flight, without one reservation. Without one single thought that he could not achieve the only thing he had truly ever longed for—complete freedom through flight. Illya's whole being soared with joy as he launched himself up and away—he was finally free!

At that exact moment, Napoleon's heart broke at the realization that some as yet unknown enemy must have used Illya's deepest longing against him through hypnosis, or drugs. Napoleon flung himself at Illya's legs and hung on for dear life, crying out, "Oh, no, _tovarisch_ , not yet!" even as his heart was further wounded by the despairing sobs coming from his partner, as other hands help the traumatized man back to the main part of the roof. The sobs, as Solo knew they would, stopped nearly instantly, but the emotionless mask was, for the moment, nowhere to be found. Illya simply shut everyone out and refused to make eye contact with anyone, except for his partner. His friends understood.

Illya was given his private room in Medical. Napoleon refused to leave until the doctors could tell them what had happened. No drugs were found in his system, so they felt that it was most likely a post-hypnotic suggestion that had been placed in his memory at some point in the past. Unfortunately, there was no way of knowing for sure when or where it had happened. The cure was simply to remove the suggestion or supersede it with another suggestion, basically suggesting the incident had never happened and that Illya could not and would not be able to "fly" should he be tempted to try the same stunt again. Although Illya scoffed at the idea at first, after talking it over with Napoleon, he decided the idea had some merit.

"Contrary to what some might think, Napoleon, I was not completely out of my mind up on that roof. I simply could not control my actions. I was absolutely aware of what I was doing. But I was also completely unafraid, of anything, for the first time in my life. There was no fear of death or loss or anything else. Only the sense that if I continued on the path I was following up there, that I would finally be completely free. Which of course, was a complete falsehood."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow; as he had learned something about his partner. It made sense that he feared loss more than death itself. He had certainly experienced enough of it. He keyed in on something Illya had said and looked at his partner curiously. "What makes you say it was a falsehood?"

Now the blue eyes simply looked amused at his sometimes oblivious partner. "How could I achieve complete freedom by hurting so badly those who care about me?"

Napoleon leaned back and smiled at his partner. They would both live to fight another day—together—as always.

~The End~

A/N: My inspiration for this one came from listening to "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult.


	6. Oreo You Ready for This One?

Oreo You Ready for This One?

Napoleon was highly amused, watching his partner try to stack another cookie on the already precariously high tower. Owlishly, Illya looked over at him.

"How many now?"

"HHmmmm…sorry, tovarisch, I lost count. Think about 31, maybe?"

Impatiently, Illya knocked the Oreo tower over. "Nyet! To be good experiment, must be accurate."

Drunkenly, he began gathering and restacking the scattered cookies once again.

And once again, he charged his drunken partner with keeping count.

Napoleon chuckled as he noticed his partner was eating all the broken cookies.

He called a temporary halt to the "scientific experiment" and went into his kitchen to pour a couple of glasses of milk. After all, he liked Oreos, too, and as drunk as the two of them were, he had a feeling, they were going to run out of cookies long before Illya ever got the answer to how many he could stack before the cookies fell down on their own…

Of course, the upside to this particular experiment was, when his partner had stopped at the market on the way home and bought three packages of Oreos, at least he hadn't even given the "Peeps" display a second glance.

~The End~


	7. All's Fair

Illya Kuriyakin fought desperately for the gun. If he didn't reach it soon, the beautiful but deadly woman grappling with him would kill him. Of that there was no doubt. Already, she had nearly managed to strangle the slightly built UNCLE agent twice, and she had probably cracked at least one rib. Not that he hadn't gotten in some pretty good blows of his own; but this woman was one of the best he had ever seen…If she got possession of the gun he knew it was all over. And of course, Napolean was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Illya brightened. Speaking of his erstwhile partner, maybe he could help him after all…

Illya decided to use one of the techniques Napoleon Solo had used to overwhelm a female THRUSH one time. If it had worked for Solo, perhaps it would work for Illya… He suddenly leaned forward and got right into the fiercely struggling woman's face—and kissed her passionately!

April Dancer's eyes widened in shock. She immediately stopped struggling and kissed her longtime crush back with as much passion as he had kissed her, causing Illya to gape at her in surprise. The look on his face caused both Napoleon Solo and Mark Slate, watching from the Training Observation Area, to collapse into helpless laughter. Alexander Waverly, on the other hand, wasn't exactly sure what to think. "Shall we call that one a draw?" he called out drily, to his two now thoroughly flustered agents.


	8. Conundrum

Conundrum

Part of me doesn't mind growing older; not that 32 is really all that old. After all, growing older in our business does mark one more year that Napoleon and I have survived. However, growing older also marks one year closer to the time when I will be forced to retire from the one occupation which truly makes me feel alive. And therein lays the true mystery. What then? I am not a paper-pusher, no matter how often my partner saddles me with that odious duty. My lab offers only limited solace from my grief. What then? Conundrum, indeed.


	9. Baptist Punch

Prompted by the Drabble Photo Prompt on LJMFUSec7

"Baptist Punch." Napoleon said rather obscurely, during the stuffy, crowded party. They were both tired, and bored out of their minds.

Illya gazed at him askance. "And your point, please?"

"This stuff we're drinking. It's weak and disgusting. No flavor at all. Baptist Punch."

Illya scowled in irritation. "I fail to see what a Judeo-Christian Religious organization would have to do with a recipe for a dilute, flavorless beverage. Really, Napoleon, There are times, when I truly believe your use of idioms may possibly be just your own peculiar plot to confuse me, since you know they are the one difficulty I still have with English."

"I'm not making this up, Chum! Go ahead, ask anyone! They'll tell you!"

Napoleon really should have known better...but he had to admit the sight of his stolidly logical partner moving from group to group inquiring as to the origin and recipe for Baptist Punch was damned amusing...


	10. Say it at Gunpoint

Napoleon was embarrassed; Illya seething. Waverly inquired, "You gentleman are dressed in tablecloths, why?"

Through clenched teeth the Russian spat, "Ask him, she is his—"

Napoleon smoothly cut in. "Bit of a misunderstanding, that. In order to get us out of a situation with a contact, I had to pretend to be a terrible gambler and literally lose the clothes off our backs before they would let us go. All our equipment was in the car."

Dubiously Waverly let them go.

Across town, Angelique laughed as she prepared to mail their clothes back to UNCLE headquarters.

Poison ivy, indeed…


	11. Grief

Grief

The lights were off in the office, which was unusual. Napoleon approached carefully. He hesitated, listening outside the darkened room, hearing an unexpected sound: crying. He quietly peeked in, his eyes widening at the sight of his normally calm, cool partner slumped at his desk, head down, sobbing into his arms as if his heart were shattering. Suddenly, as if he sensed he was no longer alone, the sobbing stopped, and his composure returned, as though a switch had been flipped. Illya straightened quickly; locking the photo away. Coolly, he eyed his partner, all business as usual. "Good morning, Napoleon…"


	12. Crashed and Burned

"Napoleon? Why am I in Medical again?" The blue eyes widened in realization.

Illya was awake and apparently functional. In a few hours, the young Russian was probably going to wish otherwise. Napoleon smiled at the thought.

Illya was going to have a lot of explaining to do regarding his thoroughly duct-tape smothered lab; not to mention hours of solitary clean-up duty on his off-hours. That was the punishment already decreed by Mr. Waverly. It was good the secondary lab was fully functional.

"So, _Tovarisch,_ need anything? Maybe a cup of coffee?"

The poisonous look said it all. Napoleon ran.

~MFU~

N/A: *If you would like to know more about this incident, please read my story "The Espresso and Duct Tape Affair."


End file.
